


403 BC

by nocturnalboys



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, I'll add more - Freeform, Multi, POV Alternating, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9622880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnalboys/pseuds/nocturnalboys
Summary: On the first of the year, the sky marked with neither moon nor stars, a baby was born.Within the hour, another, and before noon, yet another. In fact, hundreds of infants emerged into the world that day; none of them denied importance, as each new life unknowingly shapes the course of hundreds. But these children were different, for they were born royal, a blessing of heaven, a promise of food and warmth lighting even their first minutes. With the first swaddle of blankets, the cradles of nursemaid and priest and mother, the three who would share a birthday were given perhaps the greatest gift of all; wealth.***History marched on, handed into the arms of infants who would become kings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all this is the beginning of my nanowrimo from 2016! I didn't finish it aha.. but I will have regular updates of it, just like TMWIH had! I'm gonna take a little break before then but here's the prologue, just so y'all know what's coming! :D

On the first of the year, the sky marked with neither moon nor stars, a baby was born. 

Within the hour, another, and before noon, yet another. In fact, hundreds of infants emerged into the world that day; none of them denied importance, as each new life unknowingly shapes the course of hundreds. But these children were different, for they were born royal, a blessing of heaven, a promise of food and warmth lighting even their first minutes. With the first swaddle of blankets, the cradles of nursemaid and priest and mother, the three who would share a birthday were given perhaps the greatest gift of all; wealth.

In the Middle Kingdom, the first child was born. In a rich and incensed palace chamber, the empress cradled the new fourth princess by soft lamplight. Hakuwu Ren was described thusly by the court scholars in attendance; a very small infant with only a dusting of dark hair, who from the moment she was born began to cry. She would not stop crying, as though the mere act of being born was a great offense to her. Court ladies politely turned down the chance to hold her. What a loud and ugly child, they whispered behind sleeves. Whoever’s task it would be to raise a demon like that into a proper wife had their work cut out for them. Empress Gyokuen could not seem to soothe her. Hakuwu Ren would not permit herself to be comforted. 

The child could not be blessed that night. She would not remain silent long enough to conduct the ritual. At least, her father, the honorable lord Emperor remarked with a smile, her lungs work properly.

Across plains and deserts, the second child was born precisely at dawn. As the first sunbeams touched down on the aqueducts, wreathing Rome in the light of the gods, a young noblewoman reclined in her bed, watching as the first Alexius child received her first bath. Scheherazade had been loathing the day she would give birth to her child, but luck and the heavens smiled upon her. The first Alexius had wasted no time in arriving, taking under two hours to escape her womb and take her first breaths. The child was proclaimed all around healthy by the physicians, but the augur had some troubling insight. There was supposed to be a boy this morning, he remarked quietly, but you have defied fate and brought us a girl instead. A girl patrician was of less value than a male, he reminded her.

This only bothered Scheherazade briefly, as her daughter was possibly the loveliest thing she had ever seen. Her eyes and visage mirrored her mother’s, down to the beauty spot beneath the corner of her eye. She looked so like a nymph or fairy, Scheherezade thought, watching the little Alexius stick a few fingers in her mouth. Her name would be Titiana. It sounded, to her, both regal and delicate.

The third infant was a tumultuous affair, and her arrival was a lightning strike into the houses of the boyars. Within the faint borders of Ruska, the Scythian warriors to the South, the Magyars to the east, snow fell in smothering feet over the eurasian steppe. The Musta’sim family had longed for a son, to keep the knights in line, to remind the peasants who exactly they were pledged to, but luck was not in their hands. Under a choking swath of black clouds, Dunya Musta’sim killed her mother. It was quite an accident, but, her father decided, very much her fault. The squirming and unrepentant child was thrust into the hands of a nursemaid, who bundled her in wool and slid a cap over her soft, bald head. She was a princess, despite what she had done. Judaism had not yet reached but a few miles from lands to the south; the infant was anointed with blessings from the many spirits in the forests and fields. The nurse tucked her into her beautiful cradle, leaving a pair of iron scissors under her embroidered pillow to protect her from evil. 

Dunya was a quiet child. Not understanding the mourning those around her stooped beneath, she gurgled softly. The world was soft and warm, and her nurse’s humming filled the room with calm.

A thousand and one things followed them that day into the world. In the desert lands, a boy with golden hair sat with his mother on the back of a camel. The very moment Dunya’s mother closed her eyes for the last time, an assassin prepared to strike a young Indian merchant as he secured his first contract. In a wild savannah, a girl with striking red hair tilted her head back, allowing her mother to smear delicate strokes of paint across her cheeks and brow. In a dark and ancient forest, a child learned to use the bones of animals to convey the will of the fates. 

History marched on, handed into the arms of infants who would become kings. 

Under a blazing sun, the half-grown children of a pharaoh squabbled over a tray of dates. A toddler puzzled over a conch shell in a castle, carried for thousands of miles up the steppe from an ocean she had never laid eyes on. In 403 BC, the masts of trade vessels drifted in the southern seas like a handful of petals tossed from shore into the monsoon currents. 

Some people had God on their side. Some had gods, plural. Some had a divine power. Some had spirits. And some had no one at all. 

In the imperial palace, introduced to the cool light of day by an older cousin, Hakuwu Ren stopped crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also! okay just for Extra clarity; Hakuwu is Hakuryuu's (eventual) deadname and Titiana is Titus's! I wanted this story to incorporate a lot of self discovery aspects, as well as changing their names to their real, true ones. Long story short, I //know// these are the wrong names for both characters, and they'll come to realize this too!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, here is some more of This!! I'm not sure I can hold myself to a 100% locked in schedule like I've done before but I make a solemn promise that this will keep updating somewhat regularly!!!

The first days of a child’s life were, in some cultures, said to be the most formative. As Titiana laid comfortably against her mother, fed on a diet of milk richened by all the provisions Western society had to offer, Dunya Musta’sim had to be forced by a wet nurse to eat. Often forgotten, the little princess waited patiently for attention in the cold stone tombs of the fortress for hours, only giving the occasional whimper. Her father was preparing for the burial of the queen; and inevitably, another, even younger wife. 

Little Hakuwu Ren was mostly stared at. Pairs of eyes rotated above her head like a mobile. Courtiers, siblings, cousins; the whole court wanted a glimpse at the perpetually squalling child. Nothing much, was the general consensus. Not a general or a scholar like her teenaged brothers, and not as proud and clever looking as her sister. 

All in due turn, Hakuwu met her present family. Brothers, Hakuren and Hakuyuu. A sister, Hakuei. Cousins, Kouen and Koumei. Of course, the infant was confined to the inner chambers of the palace and the court, as well as the small inner garden, but once it was permitted, all five gathered above Hakuwu’s cradle and appraised her properly.

“I think she looks enough like sister to be her.” Hakuyuu bent lower, examining Hakuwu scrunched face. “That is, if she would stop crying.”

Hakuei, then a mere five years old, allowed a smile to creep over her face. “I think she’s fine the way she is. The crying does not trouble me.” 

It was raining heavily outside, and silver-grey water poured from the clouds, drumming on the pagoda roof. This was no solace to Hakuwu, who had cried louder today than on any other in her short life. Koumei winced, his eyebrows furrowed together. “It bothers me. I have a headache.” 

The emperor’s brother, Koutoku, had plain dark hair; however, he had a penchant for the unusual rarity of a redhead. His wife had been red headed, as had two of his mistresses. As a result, all of his offspring bore the same scarlet tresses as their mothers. Kouen, stern-faced and numbingly logical, passionate for knowledge and military skill, wore his half-up in a top-knot. Koumei was less punctual, routinely putting up his own in a ponytail. 

Besides appearance, they were not considered heirs, taking second fiddle to the Hakutoku brood; whatever they accomplished would be worth half as much in the eyes of the emperor and his own esteemed wife. Even the infant Hakuwu was worth more to all of China than studious, gruff Kouen and his perpetually tired younger brother. 

Hakuyuu was the pearl of the family. As crown prince, at any moment he could be raised to the throne. Hakuren came in second, but not for nothing. He was personable, a bright spot in the court, and as it seemed to everyone, cared deeply for his family and his country.

He lifted Hakuwu out of her cradle, grinning down at her. “No one can cry forever. She’ll grow out of it. Not every baby can be all smiles like Hakuei was!” This got a rise; as an infant, Hakuei had been notoriously charming. At five, the third princess still had large shoes to fill, but the memories of her first few months were strong at court. 

Hakuwu resisted Hakuren’s sentiment mightily, suddenly screeching in the arms of her brother. He startled, blinking. “Anyone else want her?” 

Hakuyuu offered his arms, to which Hakuren eagerly deposited the princess. There was no change at all in her volume; Hakuyuu bit the inside of his cheek, distressed. “I thought perhaps she would like me.” He sighed. 

Her steps unstable, the honorable empress Gyokuen forged a wobbly path into the room. “What are you children doing to my daughter?” She asked softly, a good natured look of bemusement on her features. 

Hakuyuu lowered his head; the others bowed. “Forgive me mother, I thought holding her might soothe her.”

Gyokuen shook her head slightly, holding out her arms. “I’m ready to hold her myself again. Maybe this time she’ll find some comfort in her own mother’s embrace.” Hakuyuu gave a slight nod, passing a squirming Hakuwu to the dishevelled empress. She settled the child, rocking her slowly. “Now… There isn’t any need to cry. You’re all taken care of here, Wu.”

It was a miracle. The room de-crescendoed into silence, broken only by the occasional sniffle. Gyokuen smiled, relieved, as did the crown prince. “That’s much better.” She turned, motioning for the doorway. “I’m going to feed her myself. She needs the extra love.” 

***

Meanwhile, the Alexius child was taken, for the very first time, out of her home. It hadn’t took long to prepare her. Scheherazade had washed her delicate skin in oil, wrapping her in a fine flaxen sheet, which she pulled up over Titiana’s head to shield her from the sun. Today she was to bring the child to the family temple; not her own, but that of her husband, the senator’s. In fact, since the man she’d been paired with carried her over the threshold of her new home, she had barely seen her family at all. 

She had been confined to bed for some time, for the safety of the supposed little boy, but a girl was just as well. Secretly, Scheherazade didn’t much care, as long as Titiana was healthy and breathing. The sun was winking low in the sky, just beginning its path through the heavens behind the chariot of Helios. The air was slightly chilly, and the mother shivered slightly, the skin on her exposed arms prickling. It was still a relief to breathe, to stand in the neatly paved street and feel a light breeze rush from over the ring of hills and into the valley. 

Titiana was unbothered by the cold, and peeked out from under the hood of her swaddle, her little green eyes like marbles rolling over the scenery. Scheherazade lingered on purpose on her way to the forum, letting Titiana watch a group of merchants passing by with their cart, two students on their way to lecture, a group of soldiers laughing, helmets tucked under arms. This world, this country and all its citizens, in that moment, in the child’s eyes, existed only for her. She did not even know it, but at that moment, Roman soldiers were laying brickwork for roads, measuring precise and even blocks of stone, marching upwards to civilize the barbarians of Gaul and Britannia. 

She would grow up to know this. But for the moment, all she knew were bright colors and her mother’s arms and the coolness of the flaxen cloth around her. 

Scheherazade stepped carefully around a corner, holding Titiana closer as she crossed the wide-open forum. The sun was higher now, and citizens milled about, making purchases, socializing, greeting one another, patrician and plebeian alike. Children tumbled in a hay cart, one stuffing a bundle down the back of the other’s tunica. The sight made Scheherazade smile, if only slightly. Someday Titiana would have friends to fool with. Girls could not attend school, but Titiana must be allowed some chance at companionship and fun. 

The Alexius temple was smaller than the public ones, but lavishly and intricately decorated. A flame burned on the surface of a bowl, filled with oil, a wick placed within. A motherly statue of Juno stood behind an altar, peacock feathers draped on her shoulders. An attendant waited there for the child. “Is that him?” He peered down with small, dim eyes. 

Scheherazade nodded, then thought better. “The predictions were wrong. I’m afraid this child is a girl.”

“She is yours though, and no other?”  
“Yes. I am sure of that. Would you like to see her? Her name is Titiana.”

“What a strong name!” The attendant remarked, long-fingered hands lifting the little creature up. “She is very attentive. Juno surely has already blessed her, as has Vesta. May she grow up into a lovely woman like yourself.” He lifted a glittering gold medallion, the crepundia, and placed it around Titiana’s neck. “I name you Titiana Alexius, and in the eyes of all the gods, may you find happiness and live well.”

Titiana did not understand the blessings, but she did understand the warmth in the older man’s voice, and this pleased her, deep down. Scheherazade took her back, face pink. “Thank you. Peace be with you.” As she left, she could imagine the goddess smiling upon her back. The senior Alexius would not be home for some time, as he had travelled south with some other senators, but when he returned, or caught the message of Titiana’s birth, she teased herself with the thought that he would be pleased. 

In the forum, some commotion was happening; three centurions, seated on the backs of dappled stallions, trotted in formation down the center of the wide square. People froze in place, heads tilted up in awe to watch the sun gleam off their breastplates, the hoofsteps sounding in time. Scheherazade paused, too, to let Titiana watch. 

“Look, this is your country.” She murmured. “This is who you are.”

***

The snowstorm halted for no man. The boyars came one by one with their daughters, to present to the Lord Musta’sim. Held by her nurse, Dunya watched vacantly, as each set of fur-clad girls smiled and bowed and pledged fealty to her father. At two weeks of age, only a few things made sense to her; chiefly, pretty colors. While her eyes could not discern shapes adeptly, the colors of the potential wives were a magnet to her. 

Dunya’s mother had not been special in any way to the Lord Musta’sim. While he was angered at the loss of her, while the nobles and servants went into mourning, he could not have said in truth that he loved her. The acquisition of a new wife had to be timely, or else how would the lord make proper male heirs? In this land there were not many laws but those of succession, which was held near and dear by the Lord Musta’sim and his boyars. 

“Presenting Luzmila.” A squat, balding boyar waddled in, trailing his teenaged daughter. Her hair was braided in a crown, interspersed with holly berries, a bright and alluring red. Dunya sighed in appreciation, blinking slowly. If she were near enough, she would have grabbed and eaten them. 

There was a brief discussion of dowry and blood and estates before the young lady and her father were motioned to the heavy wood doors. Dunya whimpered, upset. She was not one for crying, but something told her it was unfair that those lovely red things, whatever they were, should disappear so completely. It was a travesty- no, an outrage! The small girl wriggled all the more intensely, her nurse forced to grip tightly to her. “What’s gotten into this little one?” The woman shook her head, hoisting Dunya up firmly. “It’s as if the faeries have possessed her!” Her own son, Isaac, never fought her so strongly, and he was Dunya’s elder by three months. 

Lord Musta’sim passed a vacant eye over his daughter. “It does not matter how strong she is. The only use I have for a daughter is to make her some important man’s wife, so to keep him in my hand. Your son will be a fighter; tell me of his strengths, when they come.”

The nurse bowed her head away, all respect, but within, she bristled. Dunya was her child too, she decided, even if this man was the infant’s true father. In all of Russka there had never been a more selfish lord. In his hands, the small tribes were gripped until they gasped for breath. The Magyars were brutalized, bullied into a tribute. From the forest-steppe, the Musta’sim rose; the barbarians in the nightmares of the Romans.

But little Dunya was a princess yet, not a barbarian. The nurse decided then and there to raise both she and Isaac the same. No children of hers would be as brutal as the bearded horse-lord before her. No child of Tharja’s would behave so without compassion. She turned, moving back down the cold hallway, into deeper rooms of the haphazardly built fortress; the Lord Musta’sim was a conqueror, not an architect. He was anything but Roman, and it showed in every facet of the structure.   
In a smaller room, hidden away behind the main spaces, a child with dark hair and a long nose lay sleeping. Beside him, Tharja placed Dunya, tucking her cap a little more solidly onto her head. She seemed pleased, giving a soft yawn before settling. Yes, thought the nurse, looking down at them, brother and sister they would be.


	3. Chapter 3

Elsewhere, her feet sure and swift, all the light of the world dancing in her eyes, a girl ran through the tall grass, cutting a path through the savannah like a blade. She felt the pounding of her steps like a second heartbeat, a drum pounding just for her. The other children would beat her to the umbrella tree if she didn’t keep her pace, but at the same time, running gave her wings to fly on. The spirits lifted her feet, said the older women in the village. Her real father was a lion, joked her mother. No, a cheetah! 

Her family called her Morgiana. She who watches and discovers. Her tribe was the Fanalis, and sheltered in the savannah, the chaotic earth of the rift valley to the south, the semi-arid plain to the north, there were a thousand things to discover. Over a rise, the umbrella tree waited. A crowd of antelopes grazed off to the side, and flung into the sky, the white shapes of birds wheeled and soared. 

To the anguish of the stragglers, Morgiana leapt, snagging a low branch with her strong brown fingers and yanking herself up into the branches. She laughed from her perch, raining leaves down on the other four as they arrived. This place was all she had ever known; the sun and the animals, wide open spaces and friends and the people of her village. At night the griots sang, and that sound lulled her to sleep beneath a canopy of stars so brilliant she could almost hear them too. 

Below, an older girl stuck out her tongue, taunting. “Morgiana, you always win games like this!” She accused, playfully, “the only way I could win against you if is we tie your legs together!”

Morgiana laughed, louder this time. “No one is tying my legs together. You’d have to catch me first!”

One by one, the others hoisted themselves into the tree, the older girls helping those who were younger find footholds in the thick bark. In the distance, a herd of elephants thousands strong travelled, a grey blur rippling in the heat of the sun. In the shade of the umbrella tree, Morgiana watched them move steadily from one horizon to the next. She pretended she could feel the pounding of their steps against the earth. The rhythm of her home. 

***

The infants took the following weeks to do what children normally do; grow. 

It was a harsh winter for the Eastern Zhou. crops came up stunted and strange, the very earth revolting against the efforts of thousands of peasant people. In the north, the plains people took a battering ram to their unprotected border, surging into the provinces and doing what they would. With Hakuyuu as general, the Middle Kingdom put up a valiant fight, and with Hakuren strategizing, the tribesmen were held back. Even Kouen went; he would admit this to no other than himself, but he idolized his older cousins above any other men in the world. In this, the imperial palace was left with a hollow. Koumei remained secluded in his household, only occasionally visiting the main complex. Gyokuen, in Hakutoku’s wake, was left with exorbitant responsibility. 

Hakuei was left to care for Hakuwu. She did not mind taking charge of her little sister. It was her duty, after all. In the morning, cold fog over the imperial city, Hakuei woke, dressed herself, and hurried to fetch Hakuwu from the empress’s household. The halls were empty at that hour, wood panelling and darkness flowing by. Sometimes Hakuei envisioned snakes or demons in the corners where lamplight could not reach. It was all fun, but the instant something moved or creaked, imagined fear caught up with her in a jolt. 

In faint light, two women applied makeup behind a curtain. Hakuei peered behind, curious. She recognized them as court musicians; one sang, the other played mabu, a singly reeded bamboo flute. The process of beautification was intricate, surely, but uninteresting beyond that. Hakuei decided to never become a courtesan. Her brothers were far more interesting; surely she would become a warrior like them instead of a lady. While taking care of Hakuwu was a task she could manage, she could not yet see herself with children of her own either. 

When she arrived, the retainer at her mother’s door stepped aside to let her enter, which she did proudly, holding her head up like Kouen did when he wanted people to take notice of him. Hakuwu was already awake and fussing in her cradle. Hakuei slipped behind the curtain, hefting her up and changing her cloths. She was still very small, but her hair had grown quickly, and her eyes, like her mother’s, were a handsome and startling blue. 

Hakuwu cried a little less, but when she did, it was an event that made everyone in the room turn and whisper and shield sensitive ears from her screams. Hakuei took pride in this; her sister would someday capture the attention of hundreds with a voice like that! Bundling her up, Hakuei held Hakuwu to her chest, resting her head against her shoulder. That seemed to be to most secure way for a girl of her size to keep hold of something so delicate. She was always hearing how fragile Hakuwu was. 

Preferring the cold dawn to the darkness within the palace, Hakuei toted her sister in a circle, by-passing the empty households of her absent siblings and entering the front garden. From that vantage point, it was almost possible to see out of the palace grounds and into the surrounding city. Merchants were frowned upon, but came anyway, from lands far distant, to barter for silk and timber and spices, or occasionally trade their own. Hakuei had been outside, under supervision; her brothers took her to watch a parade the summer before. It was a memory she held near and dear. 

As the mist cleared, the small girl, holding her even smaller sister, stood on tiptoe at the high jointed gate, trying to steal a glimpse over the highest beam. “Don’t worry.” She said softly to Hakuwu, patting her back. “You’ll get to see the city soon! For now, we can ask the gentry to tell us stories. Hakuren tells the best stories you’ve ever heard; he makes even sad tales funny.” 

Her lips twisting into what could have passed for a smile, Hakuwu’s pudgy, pale fingers gripped into the shoulder of Hakuei’s robe. Was she happy? For once? Optimistic, Hakuei smiled back, exaggerating the lines of her face so Hakuwu could see it properly. “When Hakuren gets back, the first thing we’ll do is ask him to tell us about the dragons. It’s his best story.” Hakuwu could not reply, but Hakuei continued on anyhow. “In the mountains to the West lives a kingdom of dragons, and thousands of years ago they gave birth to our ancestors. You and I and our whole family have the blood of dragons in our veins.”

Hakuei paused. “I forgot that you don’t know what a dragon is. Dragons are like lizards with antlers and long, long bodies. They fly through the air too. A dragon lives in the sea and brings tides, and one lives in the clouds who brings storms in the Spring. If you find one they can grant you wishes or give you something magical.” 

Hakuwu made an appreciative gurgle, which satisfied her sister. “You’re going to be smart. I can tell. You’ll be a scholar someday.” Hakuei appraised, blissfully ignorant of Hakuwu’s future dowry. “And I’ll be a general. We’re going to make a great team.”


End file.
